


a world built on hope

by bluebeholder



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Dialogue Heavy, Durkheim Was Wrong, Family, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen, Hope, Mako Mori Test Pass, Original Character(s), Plot, Politics, Post-Canon, Sexy Lamp Test Pass, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: After the return to the Citadel, there is work to be done. Everyone must work together in order to find a better path, and make the world a kinder, greener place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of the Fandom Trumps Hate fanwork auction. My bidder (HSavinien) asked for the women of Fury Road rebuilding and reeducating the world, making it a better place. I hope that I've succeeded, and maybe, in the spirit of the auction itself, given some small inspiration for making our own world a kinder, greener place. 
> 
> Chapter 2 will be posted shortly. It will include the Vuvalini, for sure. :)

The quiet of the Vault is shocking, after the roar and press of the crowds outside. They came here because they can shut the door and take a moment to plan, away from the chaos of the rest of the Citadel. Capable helps Furiosa to a cot that Toast drags out of the bedroom, letting her lie down. The fact that Furiosa doesn’t protest tells Capable that she’s still in terrible pain. But when Capable tries to hover, Furiosa weakly pushes her away. “Help the others,” she says. “I’ll be…fine.”

  
Capable turns to face the other women. Dag is on her place on the stairs, Toast is leaning against the wall, and Cheedo is holding the hand of one of the Milking Mothers. There are several of them, all looking nervous, some still carrying their broken dolls. They huddle together, looking around at the Vault with wide eyes. Capable vaguely remembers a face or two, women who might have briefly spent time in the Vault before they were deemed better for making mother’s milk. They aren’t all here—though there are about two dozen Milking Mothers, only a few elected to come and be part of the council.

“So what do we do now?” Toast asks, breaking the silence. “Angharad and Miss Giddy are dead. The Vuvalini are dead. Joe’s dead—”

“—and good riddance to that ugly schlanger,” the Dag says sweetly. There are a few nervous chuckles from around the room, and the tense atmosphere softens.

Toast cracks a smile. “Yeah,” she says.

“You didn’t have a plan for this?” one of the Milking Mothers asks. Her eyes are keen and bright blue above the veil she wears that hides her mouth.

“We didn’t mean to come back,” Capable admits softly. She worries the hem of her scarf with her fingertips as she speaks. She doesn’t like this, being the center of attention, all eyes on her. But they have to tell the truth now, if they want anything to be different. “We meant to go away forever.”  
Cheedo nods, shamefaced. “We should have tried to bring you along,” she says.

“We’d have slowed you down,” another of the women says matter-of-factly. Her hair is braided, and it appears that her ears were once pierced. In the face, she looks like Toast—this woman might once have been a Buzzard. “But now you’re back. What are you going to do?”

“Why are you looking at us to lead?” Toast challenges. A reasonable line, Capable thinks. None of them are really the type to be leaders. If Angharad were here—she stops that thought before it can go any further. Angharad isn’t here, and thoughts like that don’t matter.

The smallest of the Milking Mothers, a woman only just older than Capable with the fingers of her right hand missing, gazes at all of them. “You killed the Immortan,” she said simply. “You’re strong enough to lead us.”

 

***

 

They have no more time to deliberate. The decision is informal, but the former Wives accept it anyway. They are the leaders of the Citadel now. Or, at least, they will be, when they restore some semblance of order.

The Citadel is in chaos. The Wretched attack any War Boys they come across and assault each other in their search for water, though they’re primarily confined to the third tower where the elevator is suspended. The remaining War Boys, though they’re weak and few in number, have factionalized—divided into two separate groups on only the first day. One declares allegiance to Furiosa and posts a guard in the first tower around the Vault and the main aquifer, and one goes entirely rogue, seizing control of the second tower where the blood bank and the machine shops are kept. The greenthumbs, crane acrobats, and wind farmers who work the terraces atop the Citadel bar the gates and refuse to let anyone up. The War Pups run wild, mostly joining factions of their older brothers but sometimes forming tiny crews of their own.

Only the first tower has a semblance of stability, and even here things are not under anyone’s control. Before anyone can get to Corpus Colossus, the last son of Immortan Joe is thrown from the tower by a crowd of overzealous War Pups. Toast swears for fifteen minutes, shouting that now they won’t have any idea how the Citadel works, before storming off to search for whatever records have been kept so she can take stock of what they have.

Cheedo talks to the former Mothers—led by the Buzzard woman Snaketongue and sensible, blue-eyed Cat—about whether or not they’re willing to keep milking, at least for now. Some are, some aren’t; but they’re all aware that the strength of the Citadel has always been in their milk. Without that supplement, they won’t have fighting strength or trading leverage.

Though, after this conversation, Toast points out that Gastown and the Bullet Farm—let alone the Buzzards and the Rock Riders—aren’t any better off. “We took out a lot of cars and a lot of people,” she says. “They’ll be scrambling, too.”

The Dag spends hours on the stairs under the gates of the terraces, negotiating with the frightened people hiding above for safe passage to take stock of their supplies. A few of the more daring War Pups offer to climb up and let the gates open by deceit, but Capable shoos them away. They’re all very excited, she can see it in their bright eyes and smudged paint, but the last thing they need right now is for a pack of War Pups to invade the terraces. Finally, the greenthumbs let the Dag and a couple of the Mothers up, slamming the gates shut behind them to keep out the War Boys.

Capable isn’t sure what to do with herself. The Dag and her satchel of seeds are up looking into ways to handle the green situation, Toast is buried under mountains and stacks of records searching for the Citadel’s information, and Cheedo is negotiating her way through helping the Mothers move beyond the milking room with remarkable aplomb. Capable isn’t necessary. So she sits by Furiosa, one of the Organic Mechanic’s apprentices directing her, and wipes the feverish woman’s brow and tries to bring the fever down. The wound’s infected, but it isn’t bad, the apprentice reassures her. With what antibiotics were in this tower, they’ll be able to keep her alive.

Furiosa fades in and out of lucidity. Sometimes she’s awake, looking as keen as Capable has ever seen her, and other times she’s barely present at all. During one of her clear moments, while Capable’s busy holding her hand and watching a pair of War Pups puzzle over a book, Furiosa asks in a rasp,

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking after you,” Capable says.

Furiosa grimaces. “Stop it.” She pulls her hand free of Capable’s. “Go be useful.”

Capable scowls. “Doing what? Everyone else is doing the hard work already.”

“So?” Furiosa says. She points across the room. “They remind you of anyone?”

Capable looks where Furiosa indicates to see the War Pups, settled together on the steps, taking turns turning pages of the book. One of them has his tongue between his teeth. They aren’t reading, but they’re certainly enthralled. The look on their faces…it’s familiar. The look of someone feeling a kind touch for the first time. Almost without thinking, like she’s in a trance, Capable gets to her feet and walks across the Vault. She sits on the step just below the War Pups, who stop what they’re doing and look up at her with wide, curious eyes.

“Whatcha want?” one of them asks.

“Can you read that book?” Capable asks back, glancing at it. It’s one of the ones with lots of pictures and a hard cover—a story of fanciful, colorful animals and places that the encyclopedias agree were never real that rhymes beautifully.

The War Pup shrugs. “’sgot pictures,” he says. They’re both very small, even by pup standards, less than three thousand days old if they’re a day.

“Would you like to hear what it says?” she asks.

They look at each other, whispering with their eyes, and then with a comical solemnity the other pup hands the book over to Capable. She opens its cover back to the first page and, slowly, holding the book so they can see the picture, she begins to read. “One fish. Two fish. Red fish. Blue fish. Black fish Blue fish. Old fish. New fish.”

“Whassa fish?” one of the pups interrupts.

“An animal that lived in water long ago,” Capable replies. “In the Before Time.”

The other pup’s eyes go round. “Lived in Aqua Cola?”

“Water,” she corrects gently.

“’s just a story,” the first pup says, elbowing his friend.

“It was real,” Capable says. She glances at the book in her hands. “Should I keep reading?”

“Sure,” the other pup says, leaning forward, peering at the book with new interest.

Capable goes on reading, until her voice is dry and she has to stop to get water. The pups laugh and clap at the funny parts, and when Capable is done a third little pup has wandered up. The moment the last line of the book leaves her mouth, the second pup asks,

“Will you read it again?”

She smiles. “Do you want to bring anyone else?”

The pup nods. “I’ll be right back!” he says, bolting out of the room. A few moments later, he comes back with a few other pups of around the same age trailing behind him. They gather around Capable, staring at her rather than the book. She doesn’t mind. They’re here. They’re listening. And it might be silly nonsense rhymes, but those silly nonsense rhymes will teach them to read just as well as a dictionary or a grammar book. And if they’re to make the Citadel a freer, better place than it has been, they need all the readers they can get.

She starts at the beginning. “One fish. Two fish. Red fish. Blue fish…”

For now, this is enough. It’s the first time in a very long time that Capable feels the gentle beating of hope’s feathery wings.

 

***

 

The sun is low in the sky when Toast, exhausted, face smudged with dirt and dust, carrying a stack of papers over which she can barely see, calls a meeting in the Vault. Her skin is crawling from all the things she’d seen while going through the records, but she doesn’t have time to think about them. They can wait for later. For now, they need to take stock.

Snaketongue, Cat, and Cheedo arrive in the Vault together, and it warms Toast’s heart a little to see that Cheedo is holding Snaketongue’s hand. Capable has a little War Pup—who can’t be more than a thousand days old—asleep in her arms, head resting on her shoulder. Furiosa has enough strength to at least sit up when Toast calls them to order. And Dag brings in a woman, as thin and bony as she is with dark skin and thickly braided hair, whose hands are rough and chapped from working on the farms.

“We need a plan,” Toast says, when all the women are settled. “I’ve been through the records—all of them—and it looks like old Joe relied on the Bullet Farm and Gastown more than he let on.”

“What do you mean?” Snaketongue asks.

Toast sighs and looks at one of her many pieces of paper, this one marked with a large “X”, to signal its importance. “The Citadel doesn’t produce any of its own ammunition or fuel,” she says. “Not in the quantities needed to actually defend it or keep the lights on. There’s a store, but someone noted that the guzzoline won’t last long…”

“A couple of months,” Furiosa says. All eyes turn to her—some respectful, some suspicious, some fearful. She’s still holding her side, but at least she’s talking, even if there’s a rasp in her voice that makes her sound half alive at best. She pauses, trying to catch her breath, and Toast hears the rattle every time she inhales. “Unless you use stabilizer and keep it in airtight drums. Which Joe didn’t.”

“Cheapskate,” the Dag mutters. “Coulda saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“He assumed that he’d always have access to Gastown,” Capable points out sensibly.

“Do we still have access to Gastown?” Cat asks.

Toast shrugs. “The People Eater’s dead,” she says. “I don’t know.”

“How many bullets do we have?” Cheedo asks.

Feeling put-upon and tired, Toast pulls out stack of paper pinned together with wire. “Not as much as you think,” she says. “It looks like a lot on paper, but I don’t know how much they used chasing us, and I don’t know how many guns went missing.”

“All of that’s in the second tower,” Furiosa says.

Cat rubs her temples. “And we can’t get in there until the riots stop.”

“Capable?” Toast asks, feeling absurdly as if Capable is the only one who can possibly manage to make conversation with the War Boys. “Can you—?”

“I have some ideas,” Capable says softly. She looks down at the pup in her arms, and Toast can barely restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Capable is too compassionate for her own good.

Snaketongue looks thoughtful. “The War Boys who’ve pledged themselves to Furiosa could help with stopping the riots.”

“We don’t need more fighting.” Cheedo looks around at the other women, half hidden behind Snaketongue’s bulk, shyly bold. “What we need is food.”

“We have enough of that,” Dag says. She nudges the woman beside her with one elbow. “Scrub? You tell them, go on.”

The woman flinches. “Ah—yes,” she says softly. “The farms are in fine shape. And the greenhouses are in good shape.”

Toast’s mind races. “So we have enough food, some fuel, some bullets,” she says. “Right now, we don’t need to worry about the Bullet Farm and Gastown. Or the Buzzards, considering how much damage we did to them. We need to focus on unifying the Citadel.”

“I agree,” Capable says. She rocks the War Pup a little. He’s drooling on her, Toast notices. “We have to get everyone to work together.”

“Start with the War Boys,” Furiosa rasps. She’s leaned alarmingly to one side, but seems determined to stay upright. “You get them, everyone else will follow.”

“That’s not what we want,” Capable objects. “We don’t want to use force.”

“Not force, loyalty,” Toast says. She thinks she understands what Furiosa is saying. “If we can get the War Boys to change, then the rest of the Citadel will follow.”

Cat nods. “Without them shouting about Valhalla…”

The Dag grins. “No problems at all. The Wretched might stop rioting.”

“We’d open the gates of the farms,” Scrub chimes in quietly. She’s half hiding behind Dag, but she looks hopeful. “If they promised not to trample the plants.”

Toast nods decisively. At least for now, they seem to be letting her make the plans. That will probably change, but she’ll let it be until they want someone else. “In that case. Capable? Will you try to speak to the War Boys in the second tower?”

Capable nods. “I will.”

“You should take some of Furiosa’s War Boys with you,” Snaketongue says.

There’s a moment of hesitation, as Capable looks down at the tiny War Pup sleeping on her shoulder. “I don’t want them to fight each other,” she says. “Cheedo’s right, we don’t need any more fighting now.”

“They might hurt you,” Dag points out quietly.

For a second, there’s only the sound of water running in the Vault. A shudder creeps up Toast’s spine, thinking of all the things that ‘hurt’ can mean. “Take a couple of War Boys,” she says. “Better safe than sorry for now.”

 

***

 

Toast’s next job, the following day, is to look at the aquifer. She goes alone, leaving Capable to plan her move with the War Boys and the rest to talk about food allotment and how they’re going to feed the thousand Wretched in need of help.

The main aquifer, of course, can’t be reached since it’s far underground, but the pumping station where the big wells were blasted long ago is open. Here, the pipes carry the water up to the upper tiers of the first tower, to Joe’s private water gardens, and somehow across to the gardens on the other two towers. Toast came down here only once, long ago, and she banishes thoughts of a leash around her neck with a little growl as she pushes open the doors.

It’s still under guard, though it’s not heavy, and the two skinny War Boys—who both have lumps to spare—perform the V8 salute when they see her. Toast waves a hand at both of them, irked by the gesture. “How much water do we have?” she asks, instead of telling them off. That can come later. For now, they have to survive.

“Oh, plenty, plenty,” one of the boys assures her. He scampers up a scaffold to point at a long panel of monitors and diagrams and gauges. He taps one dial. “The aquifer’s fed by an underground river. Used to be on the surface, or so they say. It’s always refilling, no matter how much we take out.”

Toast gazes around the huge room. It’s dark and cold, and there’s condensation on the pipes. It’s so strange, to be in a room where the air feels wet. “Are you two the only people who take care of this place?” she asks.

“Nah,” the other boy says. He’s sitting by the door cleaning a gun, but the way his tongue sticks out the side of his mouth makes the action completely nonthreatening. “Whole crew of divers down here, keep the pipes flowing and check out the aquifer. We’re just guards.”

“’cause we’re too sick to do war,” the boy on the scaffold grumbles. He coughs, as if to punctuate his point.

“Where are they?” Toast asks, heart leaping. She’s not going to have to do this alone. There are people who know how to run all the machines she sees around her, people who can help.

The boy with the gun shrugs. “Locked up, I guess,” he says. “When they aren’t working, the Immortan keeps them in cells so they can’t cause trouble.”

Toast doesn’t hold back the snap in her voice as she says, “Take me to them. Now.”

The pair of War Boys leads Toast deeper into the honeycomb of the first tower’s tunnels. There are all sorts of hidden places here, places Toast has never been. She’s not sure how deep in the Citadel they are now, how far below ground. This is the War Boys’ terrain, not hers. But she keeps a fierce scowl on her face and her little gun in her hand, and that plus her former status seems to be enough to keep any of the few people they pass from bothering her.

Finally, they reach a prison. It’s just bars and gates set into the rock, and behind those are packed people. They’re all emaciated, obviously not getting enough to eat, and they’re all ashy-skinned from too little sun. Toast snatches the keys off a hook, ignoring the protests of the sick War Boy sitting guard, and starts unlocking the gates as fast as she can.

They stagger out, hunched over, some limping as if their hips hurt. They have scars on their backs, and Toast is strangely surprised to see that their lips are chapped from too little water. There are about thirty of them, and they stand in a silent huddle, filling the hall with frightened eyes and whispers as soft as falling water.

“You’re the divers?” Toast says at last.

A woman, perhaps a little stronger and more alert than the rest, steps forward, pushing her way out of the crowd. “Yes,” she says, and as she speaks her lip cracks and blood trickles down her chin. “Who are you?”

“I’m Toast,” she says. How does she introduce herself now, when she isn’t a Wife? “I’m—I was—one of Joe’s women. Who are you?”

“I’m Rush,” the woman says. “Head diver. Why’d you come here?”

“We need your help,” Toast admits, looking the woman in the eye. “I don’t know how to operate the aquifer. No one does but you.”

Murmurs break out, surprised and curious. “Where’s Joe?” Rush asks cautiously.

“Dead,” Toast answers.

Silence drops over the corridor. It wasn’t what Toast expected, but it isn’t hostile. It’s thoughtful.

“Does that mean we can have water?” Rush finally asks.

 

***

 

The rope bridge ahead sways and jostles with every tiny breeze. Capable has never crossed this bridge in the daytime—the last time, it was the dead of night, and she was hurrying across on Angharad’s heels, following Furiosa as they slipped free of the Vault to find the War Rig and hide. There was no time to be afraid of anything or think about just how high up this bridge is. Now, though, she can see exactly how far it is to the ground, and the sight makes her sick.

“She’s scared of heights,” one of the War Boys—Snap—mutters to his friend.

There’s the sound of a punch. “Shuddup,” Kez replies.

“You do this a lot?” Capable asks faintly, clutching the sides of the bridge.

Kez pats Capable’s shoulder. “If you fall, we’ll make sure to Witness you,” he says, clearly trying to be reassuring.

Capable stares at the sky, takes a deep breath, and plants her foot on the first slat. It creaks a bit, but holds just fine. That’s it. One at a time.

It takes them too long to cross the bridge. When Capable’s feet finally hit solid ground, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and sinks onto the ground.

“All right?” Snap asks, looking at her disdainfully. He swings his spear over his shoulder, the swagger making him look more dashing than the average War Boy.

“I just need a minute,” Capable says, gripping her knees and trying to catch her breath. She’s very tired of feeling like her feet are never on solid ground. Usually, that feeling is metaphorical, but today—when she has to make a trip back across the bridge later—it’s quite literal.

Car doors have been used to block off the entrance to the tunnels on this level, ingeniously rigged up with scrap metal to make hinges. They chose this bridge because, according to Snap and Kez, it’s the fastest way to the altar of V8, where any sensible War Boy would set up shop. Capable, once she’s on her feet again, pounds her fist on the door. It booms dully, and she can hear the echoes racing down the corridor behind, warning the War Boys that they have visitors.

A few moments later, she hears whooping and hollering behind the doors, and then they swing inwards, revealing a crew of seven War Boys, all painted with wild designs unfamiliar to Capable. They aren’t the Immortan’s sigil, or the symbol of V8, or even car symbols and brands. They’re organic, fluid, curling like water or blood or vines around their arms and necks. It’s such a shock not to see them painted white that for a moment Capable is stunned into silence. It’s clear, though, that they weren’t expecting to see her, either, because they all just stare with round eyes.

“We’re here to talk,” Capable says after a moment.

“To who?” one of the War Boys, dark-skinned and handsome, challenges. He carries a piece of twisted rebar, resting against his shoulder.

Furiosa, in a lucid moment, had given Capable a crash course on War Boy hierarchies. The Imperators were on top, followed by the strongest and smartest War Boys, the crew leaders. They were usually the healthiest. Every vehicle had its own crew, ranging from the two-man-crew of a pursuit vehicle with the driver on top and lancer on bottom to the War Rig with a full complement and a complex pecking order with the crew leader Ace on top and everyone else ranked according to obscure War Boy standards. At the very bottom of all of this were the sick War Boys, near the end of their half-lives, who still worked as guards or mechanics until they died. With the Imperators gone and vehicles burning in the desert, they don’t know how things will reorganize—but it’s clear enough to Capable that these boys are some kind of crew. So she addresses the obvious crew leader, the one who’d spoken to her. “To whoever’s in charge of the tower,” she says.

“We’re not talkin’ to Furiosa’s crew!” another War Boy, whose designs coil around his eye, snarls at her. “We en’t goin’ back!”

“Going back?” Capable is surprised into saying.

“Yeah, back!” the crew leader says. He scowls at her. “Furiosa’s gonna be the new Immortan, right? We’re not gonna stand for it!”

There’s a murmur of assent, and suddenly Capable understands, and the understanding makes her feel like she’s falling off the bridge behind her. They think that Furiosa—the last remaining Imperator—is going to set herself up as a god. They think that the freedom is a lie. That’s why they broke off and took the second tower.

“She’s not the new Immortan! The Immortan’s dead!” Capable says. They don’t look convinced, and in a desperate bid for their attention, she continues, “Furiosa isn’t even calling the shots up there!”

The crew leader comes forward. He’s incredibly tall, and she has to look up to meet his eyes properly. “Then who is?” he asks.

“We all are,” Capable says. “Greenthumbs, War Boys, Milking Mothers, women—all of us.”

“How dumb do you think we are?” another War Boy, not much older than a War Pup, asks. “No way something like that works! You gotta have a leader!”

Capable doesn’t look away from the crew leader. “It hasn’t failed yet,” she says steadily. “We don’t have to fight each other. There’s a better way.”

The crew leader studies her for a long, tense moment. If he doesn’t believe her, Capable knows that she’s probably going to get killed. But then he sighs, and lowers the piece of twisted rebar in his hand to lean on it heavily, as if it’s a cane. When he’s standing like that, she can see that he’s sicker than she first thought. “Better get you to talk to the rest of us,” he says.

Together, Capable and the War Boys descend into the second tower. It isn’t long before Capable is hopelessly lost, unable to remember the twists and turns of the tunnels that lead them deeper, toward the blood bank and the altar of V8. Few War Boys patrol the corridors or sleep in the barracks. Normally, this place would be full of them, but after the massacre out on the Fury Road, there really only are sick and young ones left. Of course in this time of trouble they’ve congregated in their holy place. Kez and Snap were right when they told her that’s where they would all be.

She learns that the crew leader’s name is Jacker. “Worked on the Immortan’s car,” he says, with grudging pride. “Me and my mates jacked it up ourselves. ’s how I got the name.”

“It’s a good name,” Capable says. The story behind a War Boy’s name is, it seems, special. Snap is named for the fact that he’s never missed a shot. Kez is named after another War Boy, one who mentored him and died historic on the Fury Road. Capable wishes, just a little, that she knew how Nux had gotten his name. But her heart aches a little when she thinks of him, and there’s no time for that. So she puts him out of her mind, and forges onward.

Capable has never been to the blood bank. It is—or was—the Organic Mechanic’s domain, and she wouldn’t go there for all the water in the world. But now he’s gone, and so when she comes into that bright blue open space, she has a chance to see it free of fear.

The iron cages still hang from the ceiling, but all of the people used as blood bags are already gone. It’s a relief, that this is one thing they don’t have to do, one battle they don’t have to fight. Benches and pallets around the room are full of sleeping, sick War Boys, no more than skin and bone, with lumps chewing voraciously at every part of them. War Pups huddle together among their older brothers’ feet, and when Capable comes in their small eyes turn to her. Even they have been painted with the odd, curling designs. They aren’t skeletal. It’s almost as if they aren’t even half-lives anymore, and for a moment she wonders what is going on.

That’s when she notices—the altar of V8 is nowhere to be seen.

“Jacker,” she says softly, “I thought there was an altar here.”

“We tore it down,” he says grimly. He limps across the room, between the pallets and benches, rebar cane clanging with every step. When he reaches the end of the room, where a shaft of light spikes down with alarming radiance, Jacker looks back at her. “Didn’t need it.”

Capable is aware that all the War Boys, even the sickest ones, are watching her. “Why?” she asks.

“The Immortan abandoned us,” Jacker says. “Didn’t Witness our deaths. Forgot about us. Used us up and threw us away. He wasn’t a god. He was never a god.”

A sudden hot anger surges. “Then why didn’t you say something!?” Capable cries. “Why didn’t you do something sooner!?”

“You think we could’ve done anything!?” Jacker shouts back. “We’re sick! We’re dying! An’ the healthy ones still worshiped him! Didn’t Witness us ’cause we died soft! We didn’t have anything!”

“Neither did we!” Capable shrieks. She clenches her fists at her sides, rage making her stupid and reckless. “We were as trapped as you and we fought back!”

Jacker points at her, condemning her. “No, you ran! You ran away like cowards and left us all to die here!” he roars.

Capable feels the words like a physical blow. She steps back, shaken. “We didn’t know how to fight,” she says. “We could only run.”

The War Boy suddenly looks exhausted. He sags, like a wilting plant. “I know,” he says. “But don’t lie to us. Or else you’re no better than them.”  
There’s a long silence.

Finally, Capable swallows her fear and frustration. She holds out her hand. “Will you come back with us?” she asks. “Will you help us? If the Citadel’s to be safe, we need you. All of you.”

Jacker stares at her hand, then looks around the room at the other boys. A few nod, a few look away, a few mutter words Capable can’t understand. Eventually, he looks back at her. “We’ll do it,” he says. “We’ll help you.”

 

***

 

The meeting that night has many more people. The Dag watches from her place on the steps, Scrub sitting behind her, as Capable leads a pair of War Boys into the room. One is only a little taller than Capable, still wearing the white paint; the other is tall and dark and leaning heavily on a twisty piece of rebar. Furiosa is much better, sitting upright without assistance. Cheedo, Snaketongue, and Cat are all sitting together, laughing and talking like old friends. Toast has a stooped woman with her, carrying heaps of blueprints and schematics in their arms.

They sit in a large circle around the fountain. Cheedo has a stick of charcoal and a piece of paper in front of her—“I thought someone should take notes,” she says shyly, when Toast gives her a quizzical eye. Dag smiles at Cheedo, proud of her little sister.

The meeting is called to order, and Toast starts off by recounting what she’d found at the aquifers. The Dag listens attentively—this information is critical to the health of the farms. Without water, the farms will dry up and die quickly. The aquifers are full, it seems—plenty of water for the farms and enough for people to drink. And apparently the water will keep coming, since there’s a river down there, buried far under the earth.

“We’ll keep diving,” the stooped woman says. “Who’ll check the aquifers if not for us? But we have conditions.” She sounds hesitant, and stops.

“What are they?” Capable asks gently.

The stooped woman clears her throat. “We want water without beatings,” she says. “We want to see the sun. We don’t want to live locked up anymore.”

“Of course! That’s the point of all this, isn’t it?” The Dag points at the Vault door, standing wide open. “We’re not going to keep people locked up or beat them!”

“Yeah!” one of Capable’s War Boys enthuses.

The other, the one with the cane, scowls. “Sure about that?” he asks.

Capable places her hand over his. The Dag can barely refrain from rolling her eyes—another of Capable’s torrid romances? “This is Jacker,” she tells the rest of the group.

“We won’t be used as battle fodder anymore,” Jacker says, and Dag hums her approval. “No more about dyin’ soft. No more sending Pups to do war.”

“Sounds good,” Furiosa says, with a shrug.

Cat stares Jacker down. “You’re a War Boy,” she says softly. “And you want us to keep our babies? You think we’re fools?”

Jacker snorts out a laugh. “I’m not sayin’ no more War Boys,” he says. “I’m sayin’ no more unnecessary killing.”

The Dag freezes, and she sees Toast staring at Jacker. Capable draws back, and Cheedo’s eyes go wide. Even Furiosa stills, eyeing Jacker not quite suspiciously.

“Those were her words,” the Dag finally says softly.

“Whose?” Jacker asks, looking up at her.

“Angharad’s,” the Dag says.

“She was right,” Cheedo says. Everyone else looks confused, because Cheedo almost never speaks up in meetings, but Cheedo rolls on anyway. “It’s not no killing. Sometimes we have to kill. Sometimes people have to be snapped. But not people who are innocent. Not people who’ve done no wrong. And we don’t kill by locking them up or draining their blood or making them have babies.”

“I like her,” Snap says, pointing at Cheedo. Cheedo ducks her head and smiles.

“One man, one bullet,” Toast says, and Dag hears the Vuvalini speaking through her.

“So that’s it,” the Dag says. She grins. “No unnecessary killing.”

The stooped woman nods. “Sounds clear to me,” she says.

“You kidding? That feels better than shine,” the other War Boy says.

Jacker laughs. “It feels like hope,” he says.

The Dag nods at him, hearing the echo of other people saying those same words, like there are ghosts hovering in the air around her. “That’s what we’ll build the new Citadel on,” she says.

Toast shakes her head. “I thought you were all so naïve for the longest time,” she says wonderingly. “But here I am, feeling as hopeful as the rest of you.”

“It’s about time!” the Dag says.

“Now let’s put that hope to some good use,” Snaketongue says. She’s correct: they have a lot of work left to do if they want this new Citadel to succeed. And the Dag decides right then and there that she’ll work her fingers down to the bone to make sure that it does.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days hurtle by as fast as a motorcycle. As Toast hunts down information in the Citadel’s records, Capable makes peace with the War Boys, and Dag works on the farms, Cheedo is left to resolve the matter of scarcity. They have food from the farms on the first and second tower, an aquifer full of water, and even some mother’s milk—though not much, as only eleven of the twenty-three Milking Mothers elect to continue their work—but the supplies are not infinite. It’s clear that all will get their fill of water, but food and milk are another problem altogether. 

Cheedo, with help from Toast, takes a census. In the first and second tower, there are three hundred and fourteen people. There are divers, War Boys and pups, greenthumbs, crane acrobats, wind farmers, tanners—who break down the bodies of the dead and honor them by using their bodies to help the rest survive—a few of the Organic Mechanic’s apprentices, the worm herders, and women. She has no information on the Wretched in the third tower and down on the ground, but estimates that there are at least a thousand of them. 

“Don’t worry about the Wretched until we figure out the situation in the third tower,” Toast counsels, but Cheedo factors them in anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry. 

For now, Cheedo decides, water won’t be rationed. Everyone will have enough to drink—though they’re going to have to replace that awful dumping system that Joe used to use with the Wretched. It’s wasteful, even considering that the aquifer won’t dry out any time soon. But that will have to be a long term plan, so Cheedo focuses on how they’ll ration their food and milk. 

The Citadel has a varied diet, considering that it’s in the middle of the desert. Scrub tells Cheedo that the terraces produce potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, garlic, a few kinds of lettuce, turnips, and maize. And when Cheedo talks to the worm herders, who raise the mealworms and crickets, she finds that they’ve had a bumper harvest of insects. They have plenty of food, as long as it’s rationed wisely.

She hates herself, a little, for making these decisions, but until things get better they’re decisions she has to make. The healthiest people—the people who will be able to protect the Citadel, should the Bullet Farm or Gastown send people to fight or if marauders attack—have to get more. Their rations are larger. For now, pups exclusively get mother’s milk, which is a decision that sits better with the Milking Mothers than passing it off to the grown War Boys. Everyone else gets equal shares of food—both of plants and of crickets and meal-worms. That leaves some extra, for when they manage to bring the third tower into the fold and unify with the Wretched. At that point, they’ll also have the third tower’s resources, so Cheedo will have to recalculate to account for those. 

It’s not much, and it’s certainly not the best of plans, but Cheedo is relieved that when she presents it at an evening meeting everyone agrees on the grounds that everyone will be receiving a fair portion at last. 

***

The next order of business is to get the Wretched to join the rest of the Citadel. The last tower, with the elevators and the rest of the generators, has to be connected before they can go much further. A sense of urgency has taken hold of everyone. Things are peaceful for now, but this is the Wasteland. Such a peace never truly lasts. 

It’s the Milking Mothers who make the first overtures to the Wretched. “We need to prove to them that things are different,” Snaketongue says, her look defying anyone to gainsay her. “We need to prove that there is more than water here.”

“Of course,” Cheedo says. She draws her legs up beneath herself, tracing patterns in the dust on the floor. “What are you going to do?”

“Some of the others have agreed to take the surplus mothers’ milk across to the third tower,” Cat says. “There’s enough to spare that we think all the children of the Wretched can be fed.”

Cheedo’s eyes widen. “That’s good,” she says, feeling a little breathless. “Have you told the others about the plan?”

“Not yet,” Cat murmurs.

“Will they tell us not to go?” Snaketongue’s eyes flicker dangerously. 

“I don’t see why they would,” Cheedo says. “We all want the Wretched to rejoin us.”

Cat plays with the hem of her veil. “That’s what they say. But is it true?”

Cheedo feel oddly helpless. There have been so many lies in the past, but things have to change, or it will never get better. “I’ll stand by you,” she says instead of answering. It might not be true, but Cheedo wants it to be. 

Snaketongue nods. “Then we’ll speak to everyone else,” she says.

***

Toast is shocked that night when shy little Cheedo opens the floor for Cat and Snaketongue. It’s not unheard-of for Cheedo to speak in meetings, but she doesn’t usually do something quite so bold. Then again, this is the third time that Cheedo has spoken up like this. Maybe she’s finally growing up a bit.

The two women present their plan to take surplus milk to the third tower for the Wretched children. There are liters of milk available, the women reassure them: there will be enough for all. They’ve been taking some off and setting it aside without telling anyone else for a while now. For a second, Toast is irritated that they didn’t give her accurate numbers for the records, but she pushes that aside. It was for a good cause, and besides, they’re the ones who dictate how milk is rationed. Toast doesn’t have a say in that, and neither does anyone else.

“I think it’s a good plan,” Scrub pipes up. She tucks up her shoulders when everyone looks at her, but keeps talking. “We need to get to the other farms, and besides…some of the greenthumbs and crane acrobats have family in the Wretched. We haven’t seen them in years.”

“What about the divers?” Toast asks Rush, the woman who oversees the aquifer. “Family?”

“If they aren’t dead, we’d like the chance to find out if they’re alive,” Rush murmurs. She, like Jacker, needs a cane. She’s no older than Toast, but all those years down in the dark have left her bones brittle and her hips aching. 

Capable looks around. “So we’re agreed to send milk to the Wretched?” she asks. There are murmurs of assent. The War Boys look uncertain, as they always do when the Milking Mothers speak: they’re trying very hard to think of the women as people, but it’s obviously an adjustment. 

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Snaketongue says.

And they do. As the sun cracks over the horizon, a group of women makes their way across the swaying bridge to the doors of the third tower. Snaketongue and Cat lead the way, with Cheedo on their heels, and five of the other Milking Mothers behind that, and Rush behind them. Each of the women has a large clay jar of milk balanced carefully on her head. Toast brings up the rear, long-sufferingly carrying a gun just in case. Furiosa told her to take it, and Toast acknowledges the wisdom of bringing it. 

Unlike in the second tower, the doors here are thrown wide open. It’s more quiet than Toast expected as they enter the warren. No one is around, and the tunnels—despite the presence of a thousand Wretched—are completely empty. But, then again, it’s very early. They might be sleeping still, in the secret places that riddle the towers. 

They come out into a huge atrium, where the War Rig and other great vehicles used to be kept, and all of the women stop. They’re on a balcony, a ledge that rings the room with steps going down, and on the floor and all around the ledge are packed Wretched. It’s a calm assembly, people of all ages, emaciated and obviously dehydrated, and entirely not what Toast expected. This isn’t a riot—this is a community. 

As soon as they come in, people notice. But no one moves. They stare, cautious, but not hostile, until a thin woman of great age, with brown skin as thin as linen, rises to her feet in the middle of the mass and addresses them. 

“Why are you here?” she asks, in a quavering voice that rings like a bell. 

“We brought mother’s milk,” Snaketongue says, and sets down her large jug. 

The old woman navigates through the silent crowd, climbing the steps with resolute and trembling legs. She’s as tall as Toast, when she reaches the ledge, and looks down into Snaketongue’s jug. Then she looks up at Snaketongue. “Did the Immortan send you?” she asks flatly. 

***

Cheedo’s heart drops through her feet. She sets down her jug with a thud and steps forward, beside Snaketongue, looking the old woman in the eyes. “The Immortan Joe is dead,” she says.

“I know,” the old woman says, and holds up desiccated finger on a string around her neck. “I have proof of that much, at least.”

Cheedo can’t suppress a shudder, but doesn’t let the disgust stop her. “So you know that there’s no Immortan now.”

“There’s a new one, we hear,” the old woman says. “Immortan Furiosa, isn’t that right?”

It makes Cheedo sick to hear that. “No!” she says loudly. “Furiosa isn’t a new ruler! We have a council now, and we’re all helping make decisions.”

“No one ordered us to come here,” Snaketongue says, projecting her voice so the whole massive auditorium will hear her. “We made that decision ourselves. We brought milk to feed the children.”

The old woman studies them for a moment. “We don’t have many children,” she says shrewdly.

“Then we’ll feed the sickest among you,” Cat says gently, “to help them get well again.”

Another long moment of silence passes. Cheedo shrinks under the old woman’s scrutiny. But at last she nods. “All right,” she says. “Carry it down and feed the children.”

And they do. The Wretched—who are better groomed now, clean, since the water is still falling into the great plateau between the towers—make space for the jugs of milk. The lines are unexpectedly orderly, as parents push their children forward to take milk. Cheedo feels ashamed of herself, for thinking so little of these people—and they are people, no less than anyone in the other two towers. 

The old woman appears suddenly before Cheedo. “What manner of creature are you?” she asks.

Cheedo almost wants to laugh, startled as she is. “I was one of the breeders,” she says.

“The treasure of the Citadel,” the old woman mutters. She peers at Cheedo. Her eyes have cataracts, but are still remarkably sharp. “He took one of my daughters, long ago. But I don’t know what happened to her.”

“I wish I could tell you,” Cheedo says. She glances at the floor. “But I wasn’t there long at all.”

The old woman sticks her hand out. “I’m Ginny,” she says. 

Cheedo takes her bony hand. “Cheedo,” she says. 

“The rest of them,” Ginny says, waving at the Wretched around them, “told me to be the leader, because I’m the oldest. And I have the loudest voice. That counts for a lot.”

“I’ve noticed,” Cheedo says, glancing at Toast and thinking of Angharad.

“So you want us to join the rest of the Citadel?” Ginny asks. 

Cheedo nods. “It would be good for all of us,” she says.

Ginny wrinkles her lip. “I can’t speak for all of ’em,” she says. “But I’d like to join.”

“We have water and food in plenty,” Cheedo says. She clasps her hands, trying to stop them from trembling. “No one will be less than anyone else. We just want…”

“You want something better,” Ginny says, nodding slowly. “Well. I think it’s a fine idea. I’ll spread it around, we’ll give it some talk, see if we all agree.”

Cheedo summons up a smile. “Thank you,” she says. 

For the first time since they fled the Citadel, Cheedo truly feels a sense of hope.

***

Up on the terraces, the Dag bends over the growing plants and brushes their leaves with her fingertips. They’re soft to the touch, these little potato leaves, weak for now but growing stronger very quickly. 

“You love plants more than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Scrub says.

The Dag straightens, pressing her hands into the small of her back. “They’re better than people, most of the time,” she says. 

Scrub smiles ruefully. “That’s true,” she says. “Don’t want anything from you, won’t hurt you.”

“You’re lucky to be a greenthumb.” The Dag links her arm with Scrubs and the two walk side by side down the rows of greenery. They pass potatoes, onions, turnips, and the rest. The Dag already thinks of them as old and familiar friends. The sun is strong and hot today, but the Dag doesn’t mind. This is good weather for growing. 

“It is lucky,” Scrub says, “but only now. You know that we used to not be allowed to eat anything we grew up here?”

The Dag shakes her head and spits. “Scraggle-snag wanted it all for himself,” she mutters. 

They duck under an arch and into the cool shade of one of the tunnels. Here, the pipes that connect to the drip sprinklers gather together and burrow down to the main aquifer. The women pause to enjoy the cool. There’s weeding to do—somehow, even after all this time, undesirable plants have hung on and grow in the soil of the terraces. But even these don’t go to waste. When the barrows are full, they’ll give all the unwanted plants to the worm herders to feed the crickets and mealworms. 

“You have more seeds,” Scrub says after a moment of companionable quiet.

“A whole bagful,” the Dag agrees. 

Scrub tilts her head. “You’ll plant them?”

“Maybe,” the Dag says. She thinks of that bag, with its packets and labels of all kinds of strange plants—not just food plants—that she’s never seen before. It’s tucked away in a secret place, so no one disturbs it. She’s almost afraid to plant them. What if the soil’s too sour, even here?

“We could mark a special plot for them,” Scrub says thoughtfully. “Keep ’em away from the main crops. Just a few. As an…a…what do you call it?”

“An experiment,” the Dag says. 

Scrub grins. She’s still got most of her teeth, which is an accomplishment. “Yeah,” she says. “An experiment. I’d love to see some new green things. ’less you don’t want my help…?”

“Of course I want your help.” The Dag takes Scrub’s hand. “You’re the greenthumb. And you’re my friend.”

Scrub looks startled. “…friend?”

“What, never had a friend before?” the Dag scoffs. She squeezes Scrub’s hand tightly. “It’s time you had one, then.”

“All right,” Scrub says, a trace of her old shyness creeping into her voice. “Will your other friends mind, me and you being friends?”

The Dag tosses her hair. “If they do mind—which I don’t think they will—then they’ll just have to find some other friends of their own, won’t they?”

Scrub nods. “Right. They will.”

“Then it’s settled,” the Dag says. “We’re bosom friends. Forever.”

“Forever,” Scrub echoes. 

They turn and go back out onto the terraces, side by side. As they weed, they talk and laugh, freer and happier than the Dag has been for thousands and thousands of days. It’s strange, this feeling, but she supposes it’s what her sisters have been speaking of for all this time. It feels like green things taking root and growing in her. Hope is alive and well in her, even after all this time. 

***

Furiosa is very tired of being bedridden. She can’t get up and walk much, or for very long, but she’s determined to get better. The Organic Mechanic’s apprentice—a young, skinny, wiry individual who is apparently neither a man nor a woman—takes her determination in stride, and comes up with a crutch she can use to support herself before too long. She hobbles around the room, frustrated by the lack of balance from her newly-missing arm and the pain in her side, refusing to stop even when Capable worries.

“I’m fine,” Furiosa insists, and really, she is. She’s endured far worse in far uglier places than this. 

The Citadel is already better, though it’s been barely two tendays since their return. The ration plan Cheedo invented is working fine, even as the Wretched begin to join the rest of the Citadel. A detail of War Boys is working in the machine shops, trying to get the remaining vehicles back in order. Capable is teaching pups to read, along with some of the former Milking Mothers. The Dag is already experimenting with some of the seeds from Keeper’s satchel, advised by Scrub and some of the other greenthumbs. Toast and Snaketongue are searching for anything relevant in the Citadel’s records, turning up lineages and blood types and the locations of supply caches locked deep in the warrens. 

Amid all this, Furiosa feels useless. She can’t do War, not when they don’t have cars. She can’t be an Imperator, not when other people are rationing supplies and manning their few guns. All she can be is a burden, a waste of resources. It’s a simple fact, but Furiosa doesn’t bring it up. The Wives—the Sisters, as people begin to call them—won’t hear of anyone being a “resource drain”. They’re already arguing that being a part of the Citadel shouldn’t have anything to do with skills and talents. 

“People don’t need a purpose to exist!” Toast proclaims to no one on a particularly charged evening. In Furiosa’s opinion, these are pointless words. Jacker—the de facto leader of the remaining War Boys—has made his feelings clear already. Rush is clear that no one should be denied water whether or not they’re good at anything. Scrub has said that the greenthumbs will feed everyone: “Thinning is for plants, not people,” she said when the Dag asked her. The Milking Mothers think the same way. And of course old Ginny believes it. 

Furiosa thinks they’re idiots.

The Citadel has limited resources. This is a fact. And as much as she’d like to feed every one of the Wretched and give them all safety, it just won’t work. But since no one will listen, Furiosa keeps her mouth shut and focuses on recovery. 

She wants to believe that things will get better, but in truth she doesn’t think that they ever will.

***

It’s more than two tendays since they returned, and one of the lookouts sounds the alarm. In the Vault, where Furiosa was irritably resting, klaxons sound. Furiosa almost falls off the cot, seizing her crutch and limping as fast as she can out to the balcony where Joe used to preach. A few others are already there, but Furiosa ignores them in favor of the young woman at the telescope. 

“What’s happening?” she snaps. 

The woman steps back, pushing the telescope towards Furiosa. “A dust cloud! Bikers!” she says. 

Furiosa stares through the telescope at the glaring horizon. There’s definitely a dust cloud, and she can see the vague shapes of motorcycles in the fog.

“Rock Riders wouldn’t come so close!” Jacker says, somewhere behind her.

“Maybe not when Joe was here,” Toast says, “but he’s not here now!”

When Furiosa turns, she sees Snaketongue frowning. “Did any Rock Riders survive the first battle in the canyon?” the woman asks, stepping in for a turn at the telescope. 

“I didn’t think so,” Furiosa says grimly. She turns to Toast and Jacker. Capable, Cheedo, the Dag, and several others have come in, all asking questions and looking worried. But it’s Toast who knows the exact numbers on their ammunition and weapons, and it’s Jacker who’s aware of how many War Boys are in fighting shape and how many cars they have ready for a fight. 

She doesn’t even have to ask. “We’re ready,” Toast says. “There’s enough ammunition for a skirmish, and we have more explosive lances than I thought.”

“Three cars,” Jacker says. “And enough War Boys to crew ’em.” 

Furiosa doesn’t hesitate. She hands her crutch to Capable, who tries to push it back. “You can’t just—” Capable starts.

“I have to,” Furiosa says. She looks back at Toast and Jacker. Toast is holding a gun—holding it right, Furiosa is pleased to see, someone’s been teaching her—and Jacker has straightened up, swinging his rebar cane over his shoulder, ready for a fight. 

The War Boys are eager when Furiosa comes into the garage, walking like her side isn’t killing her, and announces that they’re riding out. 

“I thought you weren’t going to be an Imperator anymore,” Toast mutters to Furiosa while the crews tear around getting ready. 

“I’m not,” Furiosa says, watching the hustle. “But this is all I’m good for.”

She takes the front car, a jacked-up former pickup that clearly wasn’t good enough to be a pursuit vehicle, but will do now. Toast and Jacker join her, standing in the bed while she takes shotgun in the cab. Furiosa has a rifle in her good arm—if she steadies it right, she’ll be able to fire just as well as she used to. The driver, a young War Boy who’s barely out of his pup days, is obviously awed to be sharing a cab with her, but she ignores it. 

They ride out of the Citadel into the desert, intending to meet the bikers head-on. It might only be three cars, but that should at least be enough to frighten Rock Riders away. They’re bandits, opportunists, not warriors. Furiosa sights down the barrel of the rifle. It lacks a proper scope, but her eyes are good, and it will do. 

Ahead, the dust cloud is growing in size. Furiosa can make out the shapes of three motorcycles, each with at least one rider. It’s vague, but something about this doesn’t seem right. These aren’t Rock Riders. They can’t be.

It’s only when the dust clears for a moment and she sees the flash of a familiar silhouette that Furiosa understands what’s happening. 

She commands the driver to stop in the voice of an Imperator, and he does, confused. The other two cars nearly crash into them, but Furiosa pays the chaos no mind. Toast yells at her, demanding to know what’s going on, but Furiosa ignores it as she tosses the rifle aside and bails out of the cab. 

The motorcycles aren’t far off, and as Furiosa stumbles over the sand towards them she knows that she was right. She shouts, wordless, and is rewarded with a cry of joy from one of the riders. 

Three women, dressed in tattered clothes, leap from the bikes as they skid to a halt fifteen feet away. Valkyrie sprints across the sand, sunburned and beautiful and so very alive, and crashes into Furiosa, and for the first time since she woke up in the Citadel Furiosa feels hope burning in her heart. 

***

“It was an accident that we survived,” Maddie explains to the council. “And it’s taken us some time to gather our strength enough to come back.”

“We had no idea whether or not you’d succeeded,” Joan says, from her cot. She’s badly injured, but Capable’s heart sings every time she looks at the woman. That Joan managed to survive the fight in the desert is an inspiration for the future of the Citadel. 

Valkyrie, sitting beside Furiosa with an arm around her shoulders, smiles. “It’s good to find you all whole,” she says, and though she looks around the circle Capable has the distinct sense that she’s speaking directly to her friend. 

“What do you want from us?” Jacker asks.

Maddie shrugs. “A place to stay? Some of that water?”

“You’re welcome here, you know,” Cat says.

“I’d like to see those gardens up top,” Joan says thoughtfully, glancing up at the glass ceiling of the Vault. “But I don’t think I want much else.”

“Everyone is welcome here,” Capable says, before someone more cynical can respond to Joan’s comment, “whether they want something or not.”

That forms the core of one of the struggles of creating a functional leadership structure in the new Citadel. Opinions generally tend to say that everyone deserves food and water and shelter, but people are divided on how voices ought to be heard. There are too many people for a direct democracy to be a good idea, but no one wants to go back to the old ways of an Immortan as a god-king. Ginny won’t hear of a permanent council making decisions: “You mark my words, it won’t be long before some people have more than others and we’re back where we started!” Toast thinks informal laws are best, and they don’t need to write anything down; Maddie throws books across the Vault when Toast starts in on this particular argument. Furiosa is of the clear opinion that only people with useful skills ought to be allowed to be part of the decision-making process, and although everyone disagrees with her it’s hard not to hear the logic in her argument. Though Jacker proposes a system where each faction sends representatives to a council, he’s shouted down because they’re trying to establish unity, not put the entire Citadel into a hierarchy again. 

Finally, after many days of debate and deliberation, Snaketongue puts forward the idea of a lottery. “Anyone who lives at the Citadel can be chosen to sit on the council,” she says. “You serve for a tenday, and then someone else comes and takes your place.”

“How many people?” Dag asks. “And how are they chosen?”

Snaketongue consults her notes. “I thought fifteen,” she said, “chosen at random from the whole population. And these are the people who actually make decisions, if decisions need to be made. They’ll take advice from the people who know what they’re about, like Scrub or Rush.”

“What about war?” Furiosa asks. “The Buzzards will be back eventually.”

“The council won’t direct war,” Snaketongue says. She eyes Furiosa and Valkyrie, and glances at Toast. “You three will.”

“What? Me?” Toast’s eyes pop.

Capable can’t help a little laugh. “Of course you,” she says. “You can hold a gun, and you can drive a car. And the War Boys like you.”

“If War Boy opinions are what counts, then really it should be you doing war,” Toast grumbles, but she looks pleased at the compliments to her skills. Capable smiles and leans her shoulder against the other woman’s.

“It’ll keep anyone from trying to get special privileges, because they’ll be out of the council in just a tenday,” Snaketongue says. “And they won’t be able to be on the council twice in a row.”

“I like the sound of that,” Ginny says unexpectedly. She folds her arms. “But what can’t the council do? What’s to stop them deciding that someone should be snapped or kicked out?”

Cheedo leans forward. “I think the council isn’t allowed to snap anybody,” she says. “And they can only kick people out for murder or taking more than they’re supposed to have.”

“We need to write that down,” Maddie says, with a raised eyebrow aimed at Toast. 

“Sure, whatever,” Toast says, rolling her eyes. “Get someone to scratch it on a rock. That’ll make it so much more powerful.”

“It will, you know,” Capable says, thinking of all the people who are learning to read now. There are ideas free in the air of the Citadel, and it’s exhilarating just listening, sometimes. The ideas are coming, she knows, from the books that more and more people are trying to read. 

Scrub, hip to hip with Dag, asks, “When will we do the first lottery?” 

“I say we announce it now, and do it in a tenday,” Rush says. “Get people excited. And we can also get all the names we need.”

“I don’t think that anyone who directs war should sit on the council,” Furiosa says suddenly. 

Capable draws back a bit, surprised. “Why not?”

“Because that’s how things got bad in the old days,” Valkyrie says. She rests her elbows on her knees. Her voice takes on the sense of someone reciting a powerful myth. “Men who did war could also make laws, and then they made war into a law, and no one could stop them.”

“So War Boys won’t sit on the council?” Jacker spits on the floor and crosses his arms, challenging the rest of the group. “Nah, won’t have no part in that.”

“War Boys can be on the council,” Furiosa says, “but I can’t. And neither can Valkyrie, or Toast, or you. But Kez could.”

“I could?” Kez asks, finally looking up from the corner where he’s busy touching up his white paint. “Me? Makin’ decisions for the Citadel?”

The Dag grins. “Sounds preposterous, doesn’t it? But I like the idea of just being able to work in the gardens.” She’s got dirt under her fingernails, and she’s carrying her baby with more grace than Capable has ever seen her do anything else. 

Jacker looks satisfied by that. With no other objections, they send Capable to find someone willing to carve the new laws into a wall. She goes with a bounce in her step, convinced that things are finally going to get really, truly better. 

***

It’s been four hundred days since the establishment of the new Citadel, since the new laws were carved on walls in each tower, since the future became the present. Green is spilling down off the sides of the towers now, terraces added to each one to expand the amount of farming they can do. An aqueduct has been constructed, carrying water from tower to tower. 

The barriers between each group are still breaking down, but they are coming down, piece by piece. Rush found her family among the Citizens, as the Wretched are now called. As, it’s true, all of them are now called. They are Citizens first and War Boys, divers, farmers, Mothers second. There are no titles, no hierarchies. Rather than standing as a blight of pain on the Wasteland, the Citadel has become an oasis of equality. 

It wasn’t long after the new council was drawn that the Bullet Farm and Gastown made overtures of peace. It had been a tense series of negotiations, especially since they’d been led by fifteen people draw at random, but it had gone well. The council—a crane acrobat, a diver, a War Boy, and twelve once-Wretched—had been firm in refusing to reinstate anything that looked anything like the old ways. In the end, they’d re-established trade, but it was true trade, and not the system of tithes and taxes that the Immortan used to use. Furiosa had been surprised, considering that twelve of the councilors had not a single special skill to their names, but the success of that encounter had convinced her that it was all right to use this lottery system.

Dag bore a girl and named her, as felt only appropriate to all of them, Hope. She took her turn as one of the Milking Mothers, as so many women do now, of their own free will. Cheedo offered to help raise the sprog, since she had none of her own yet and wouldn’t for quite some time. The two of them are good parents, constantly by each other’s side. Furiosa thinks that Capable might soon have the chance to have a sprog of her own, considering the way that she keeps looking at Jacker. And Toast, who has absolutely no interest in any of that, is happy working on her car. 

They have more cars now, since over time they’d gone out into the desert and retrieved as many pieces of the wrecked cars that they could. It’s not a fleet the size of the one that Joe used to command, but it’s certainly stronger than they had been. A few skirmishes with Buzzards and other marauders happen on occasion, but nothing like the war in the past. Though the War Boys are still called War Boys, they have more to do now in improving the Citadel’s infrastructure than going out and doing war. And they seem disinclined to go out with the same voracity they used to, now that they have a life to live for. 

It had been a shocking discovery, when Maddie and Ginny realized that the white paint that the War Boys used was full of lead and depleted uranium. The paint they thought gave them power was what was actually killing them. It had been tossed out into the desert, and suddenly the War Boys stopped growing tumors and having night fevers. The pups—who are being raised as children should, and not as battle fodder—will not be half-lives like their older brothers. 

Furiosa thinks of all this as she climbs the stairs to the greenhouses, where the unlocked Vault still sits. The door is never shut or locked anymore, and it is used as a quiet place for reflection and prayer, rather than as a prison cell. 

She’s not surprised to see that the Sisters—as they are called now—have gathered here. They often do. Even in this new Citadel, they have a certain status. These were the women whose actions forced the change, whose choices saved this small corner of the Wasteland. Though the Vault is open to all, a reminder of what the Citadel once was and what it is now, it is known that this is their place. They have the most claim to it.

“Furiosa!” Capable exclaims, setting down her book and standing to welcome her. 

“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Toast says, looking up from the schematics she’s studying. “We got war to worry about? Buzzards?”

Furiosa shrugs. “No,” she says. “I just wanted to get out of the garage.”

“This is a good place to be,” Cheedo says, cradling little Hope on her lap. 

From her spot on the steps, Dag grins. “Best place, if you ask me,” she says. She looks around the Vault, and Furiosa follows her gaze.

Someone had carved over the chalk that the women had used to write their messages to the Immortan, leaving the words permanently in the stone of the Citadel. "OUR BABIES WILL NOT BE WARLORDS”, “WHO KILLED THE WORLD?”, “WE ARE NOT THINGS.” Words that serve as the foundation of the new Citadel, carved into walls that are no longer a prison.

“It’s a lot better than it used to be,” Furiosa concedes.

This is how it began, she remembers. The Sisters, sitting around discussing ideas of a better world, trying to turn this corner of hell into a green place of their own. One of them is missing, but Furiosa feels her presence in the words on the wall, in the baby Cheedo holds, in the very air of the Citadel. 

“Angharad would be proud of us,” Capable says, echoing Furiosa’s thoughts. “This is what she wanted, all along.”

“We all wanted it,” Toast says. “A better world.”

“A kinder world,” Cheedo murmurs.

“A greener world,” the Dag says.

Furiosa smiles. “A world built on hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It does occur to me that I should _maybe_ explain the "Durkheim Was Wrong" tag. So I happen to be a political science major. Which means I spend a LOT of time reading about "ideal societies" and what they look like. In one of my classes, we're discussing how cultures come to be and why they are the way they are. For this class, we had to read Emile Durkheim's work on organic and mechanical societies.
> 
> Essentially, Durkheim argues that societies begin in "mechanical" form, where the only relations of importance are those of blood kinship. There is little specialization in terms of what people do--everyone is busy surviving, and needs about the same skillset to do so. As societies "progress", however, they being to specialize. People have new jobs and "social functions" that mark their position in the social hierarchy. Eventually, the society achieves its "best" form, the one with the most specialization, the "organic" society. Such organic societies are, according to Durkheim, inherently superior to any mechanical society. 
> 
> I happened to read this on the exact same day that I was hashing out the whole issue of whether people should be "valuable" to the Citadel in some way, or whether they should be valued for their simple existence. Based upon the outcome of _that_ discussion in the fic, I think you can see where I stand. Durkheim's idea that only complex societies have value and people are only important when they serve some kind of "social function" is, intrinsically, **complete and utter bullshit**. 
> 
> So yeah. Durkheim was wrong. The only way our world is going to get to be a better place is if we pay less attention to the demands of our too-complex organic society and a hell of a lot more to the ideas of the mechanical society. Let's have some more hope, shall we?


End file.
